


Making Amends

by leslielol



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Apologies, Episode Related, Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-05
Updated: 2016-10-05
Packaged: 2018-08-19 18:12:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8220290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leslielol/pseuds/leslielol
Summary: Post-18.02, "Making a Rapist." Barba is owed an apology, but Carisi has more on his mind.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The glorious slash--y suggested I throw this little guy up on ao3, so here it is. No edits since posted on Tumblr, just my same old shit.

Carmen suggested he take a seat, but Carisi couldn’t tell if the offer was because he was in for a longer wait, or if sitting could at least keep him from pacing the room. He sat, thinking at the very least he shouldn’t loom over the woman.

He first made contact with a small side table, then slid awkwardly to a nearby chair. The plush seat whined under his weight, and Carisi knew he’d have been better off crawling on City furniture, as Barba once put it when--despite being stood with his back to Carisi and _clear across the room besides_ \--he admonished Carisi for planting himself on the corner of his desk.

“Is Mr. Barba expecting you?” Carmen asked. She’d overheard the previous day’s shouting, but didn’t presume to think the detective was only staked outside the ADA’s office at seven in the evening to make an apology.

She’d _figured_ as much, but _presumed_ nothing.

He made a face--a twisting little number with his lips, more a pout than a scowl. He answered well around her question, saying, “Is that your way of asking if you should just turn me away now, or let me wait around for him to do it?”

“And deny him the pleasure?” Carmen asked, but took pity on Carisi all the same. She liked him well enough; he was nothing if not polite, and once brought her a piece of his sister’s wedding cake.

“He’s in a meeting with the DA,” she explained. “Those usually don’t go long, but it doesn’t take but a minute to put him in a mood. Maybe you’d be better served begging his forgiveness tomorrow? With pastry, would be my suggestion.”

Carisi glanced at his watch again. If he stuck around, Barba would surely conflate his presence with a late night, further shortening his chances of extending the kind of apology Barba would accept. There would be this wrong to consider, and yesterday’s, and something from last week would catch in his mind like bushfire, and Carisi would be done for.

But still he lingered. There was an apology to make, yes, but also a grievance to air. Carisi had a dog in this fight, too.

But, just to be sure--

“What _kind_ of pastries, do you think? ‘Cause he’s never as hyped for cannolis as a person ought to be.”

The mystery would keep.

The double doors opened and Barba entered, eyes down and locked on his phone. Carisi’s presence did not so much as stall a single step; Barba strode through the room unblinking, unbothered. “Carmen, you should head home. Have Officer Diaz walk you out.”

Barba breezed right past Carisi. It was downright chilly in his wake.

A sigh parted Carisi’s lips, though he pressed them shut fast as he heard it, and swallowed back the indignation. Carmen rebuffed Carisi’s wordless plea for help; she had a hand on her bag and another around her keys. Officer Diaz was _gorgeous_.

Carisi pushed himself up, out of the chair and followed Barba’s warpath.

When he entered Barba’s office, he closed the door behind him. It seemed likelier now than even as Carisi built these fears into being that Barba would outright ignore him. Carisi was reduced to throwing up physical obstacles as they came.

“Hey, Counselor, look…”

Barba didn’t ignore him, and Carisi had never so quickly wanted to walk back an effort. He wanted nothing more than to be rendered invisible.

“I don’t need your apologies or your congratulations,” Barba snapped, his tone a burst of unabashed derision and anger hurled so squarely at Carisi, the detective very nearly jumped to avoid it.

Barba was stood behind his desk and leaning forward, hands flat on the glossy tabletop. With enough swing, he could have cleared the desk like a hurdle. He pitched his voice instead, carrying on as though each word was a step through a minefield. Exacting, with each subsequent term more dangerous and damning than those that came before.

“And as for whatever compelled you to insinuate _I don’t know how to do my job,_ I hope you’ve gotten your head checked. Because besides _baseless_ , that was _costly_. You should know by now I keep count of my favors, and for as long as your cup has runneth over, it’s empty, now. _There is no cup._ ”

Carisi swallowed audibly, trying to vain to soothe his suddenly parched throat. A product of his imagination, surely, but Carisi found he could only nod, and not utter another word. He was mortified, now, less by what he’d said and more by the fact that he’d let it linger even a day. Barba may have had a harsh word for him yesterday, but if he’d circled back into the office after leaving--just to clear the air--the matter would have been forgiven.

Instead, no.

Instead, _this_.

He must have looked as poorly as he felt, because something broke in Barba’s stare. The hard line of his brow creased and offered unwitting favor again. He leaned back off his desk and stood straight, no longer as though he was gunning for another position in the office, the likes of which he meant to take by whatever means possible.

Seeing the crumpled expression on Carisi’s face--one that pitched his glossy-eyed gaze to the ceiling and knotted his hands at his narrow sides--Barba almost felt _bad_. Admittedly, it was a broad kind of almost. _Almost_ married or _almost_ killed; Barba had subscribed to nothing, yet.

“I--” Carisi disrupted his own start with a steadying breath. A pink tongue chased it as he wet his lips. “I know you don’t need to hear it, because you know what I said was wrong, but I need you to know that I’m sorry. Like, in addition to being wrong. I’m sorry.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And I need--” _That_ tongue again. “I need you to understand that, uh--”

Barba raised an eyebrow, wary. “Oh, good, so there’s something I’m missing.”

“--That I got a call from the Brooklyn D.A.’s office. They want me to interview for a position I didn’t apply for,” Carisi said in a rush. “They--apparently--got this great, glowing recommendation from _you_ , of all people.”

“Maybe I spoke too soon,” Barba muttered, though not under his breath. He didn’t even strive towards subtlety.

And again, Carisi sighed. As if he’d come to Barba for an apology of his own, or was expecting something equally profound.

He raised a hand to his hip, then hid the better part of his face with the other. Barba reeled back; Carisi looked _annoyed_.

With _him_.

 _"What?"_ Barba demanded, petulant. “Did I read the situation wrong? Going to law school and passing the Bar--was all that just an elaborate smoke screen? Your true passion lies in interior design, perhaps?” He swept a pile of files from his desk into his briefcase, with little care as to what they were. He’d sort it out at home; for now, the gesture felt assured and final. “You don’t have to take the interview. I’m sorry for doing you any favors.”

Finally, the drought in Carisi’s throat cleared, and because he could do nothing by halves, a dam burst: “I thought maybe you’d take it back!”

“Excuse me?”

“I didn’t--” Carisi faltered, then literally shook his hands at his sides as if the words were gathered there, clogged and heavy. “It freaked me out. I thought--if I got in your face, maybe, you’d take it back.”

It was a plea for calm and kindness where he could not bring himself to ask that of Barba outright.

Which really was his problem, Barba thought mildly.

Barba felt the fire on his tongue snuff itself out. Carisi was a sodden mess; flames wouldn’t stick.

He brought his boisterous attitude back, drew it a safe distance from Carisi, and closed it behind his wits and insight. Barba set a quirked little smile in its place.

He teased, “Because not only am I grossly incompetent, I’m also profoundly _petty?_ So noted. I’ll add that to my OKCupid profile.”

Sounding small, Carisi said, “I can’t do what you do.”

“Well, apparently, I can’t do shit.” It slipped out of him, the last recesses of his bruised ego before he abandoned it.

Both men invested in a moment of silence. Carisi gathered his wits and Barba summoned up a little more empathy than he traded in, normally. He felt buoyed by it, loose and unmet, as if he should worry now that Carisi wouldn’t hear him if he wasn’t shouting.

Quietly, he made his case: “You’ve been backseat-lawyering since I’ve met you. You want to lie to me, fine. Don’t lie to yourself and pretend this isn’t exactly what you want to be doing.”

“I just want to do the right thing,” Carisi said, and it was as if he was outside the door, saying those things with his nose pressed against the heavy wood for as muffled and empty as he sounded. “And I don’t know that I’m even in the ballpark, anymore.”

Without being asked to, Carisi crossed the room and sat across from Barba in one of the plush armchairs laid in waiting ahead of the desk. Barba had to bite his tongue to refrain from levying another cool word. Carisi looked like though if he didn’t sit, he’d surely drop.

“Fin was right,” he said, and still seemed lost to some other conversation, one he’d likely had with himself for hours, the same talking points over and over until he felt beaten by sense. Barba knew that game, and he listened for the similarities. “He arrested that guy, but some _prosecutor_ put him behind bars for 16 years.”

“Some _jury_ believed a weak case,” Barba added. “And some defense lawyers aren’t Harvard graduates. Or Fordham.”

The next thought in Barba’s mind had him take a seat as well. It was met with a long, slow exhale of breath, though that particular demon would surely never be excised.

“I preyed on Melanie Harper’s humanity today,” Barba said. Above all, it was a confession. Nevermind that Carisi had been in the courtroom to see him do it, Barba needed those words on his lips, like Carisi had needed to hear his own apology.

“Do I sincerely think she’s to blame? Not all on her own. Everyone failed Sean Roberts.” There was no winning an argument about that man--what he’d suffered, what he’d done. Barba did what all of society wanted to do: he skirted it.

Focused again on Carisi instead, Barba pressed, “You’re conscientious. It’s that kind of thinking that will save guys like him when a system fails.”

Carisi gave a miserable little shake of his head. “The system worked.”

Barba smirked, then flicked a rogue paperclip from his desk to beam Carisi square in the chest. “Did I just witness the birth of Sonny Carisi, Defense Attorney?”

“Hell no,” Carisi said, finally cracking a bit of a smile, himself. He laughed, even--though it was little more than a rattle shifting through his dry mouth. “I can’t believe you wrote me a recommendation letter.”

“Call it a momentary lapse in judgment,” Barba said, hanging like a vision of death over his grudge. Carisi, ever the blinding ray of sunlight, went charging through Barba’s line, taking it literally and answering for it.

“I _did_ , after I told the secretary on the phone that there was _no way in hell_ it was from you. She had to send me a pdf scan.”

Barba set his jaw. That wasn’t protocol.

“Did she.”

Carisi continued to shake his head, the matter still escaping his understanding. “Two pages, with your signature at the bottom.”

“A page and a half, if that.”

“I held it in my hands,” Carisi blurted out. “Like, I was having flashbacks to my second grade report card. No one’s ever had that much to say about me. Nice stuff, even.”

“No one can get in a word edgewise,” Barba threw back, but even his potshots seemed lost on Carisi, who was too soothed by the memory of the letter, a handcrafted opiate to treat his every doubt. Barba shook his head, undeniably amused by Carisi’s wonderment, and tried to play the matter off.

“I’ve always said not eating glue was the hallmark of a good lawyer.”

“Why would you say all that stuff…”

“Because it’s true,” Barba cut in. His voice filled the room and surprised Carisi, who suddenly felt as though he was in court, watching Barba work a case like a master craftsman, tending its edges and spreading it whole. Being sat in front of the man when he spoke those damning declarations was unusual, even daunting.

“Because it’s true, and because you want it. Live up to the reputation I set for you, or don’t. It’s there for you either way.”

Carisi gave a short, perfunctory nod. It was as sure as his word, though he was suddenly unable to spare a single syllable. His throat had caved in, throwing vocal chords into rubble, and trapping air in wet crevices. He eked out a breath, and with all that was in him, managed a sideways smile.

“Wow. Okay.” He blushed. Or it was an adverse effect of a severe lack of oxygen. “So, back to all the things you didn’t want to hear--I’m sorry. You were phenomenal. And _thank you_. Really.”

“Three for three. Now get out.”

With the sight of Carisi actually going--and with his hands raised as if to ward off enemy fire--Barba found he wasn’t done yet. He threw his voice wide, catching Carisi clear across the case with his next proclamation: “And for Christ’s sake, if it’s giving you so much grief, stipulate to a meeting, not an interview. Say you’re fielding offers.”

“I’m not,” Carisi corrected. He’d stalled just shy of the doorway.

Barba rolled his eyes; parsing degrees of truth was his job, but it wasn’t how he got it.

“You could get a job in this office, no problem.”

“Was that an offer?” Carisi teased, and where he found the gall to do so, he could never be certain. The collapse in his throat, he thought, was _without a doubt_ cutting off air to his brain.

Barba ignored him.

“Not _my_ job, but something above a clerkship.” Then, eyes narrowing, Barba told Carisi: “ _Never_ settle for a clerkship.”

Carisi pocketed his hands, partly because hearing guidance from Barba put him at ease, but otherwise wholly in search of a pen.

“I feel like I should be writing this down.”

Barba stood and clicked his briefcase shut. “If you can’t remember not to accept anything less than what you’re worth, I can’t help you.”

Carisi blinked in surprise. It was, in a roundabout way--but less so when he parsed the sentence itself, and suddenly there was nothing roundabout about it--Barba explicitly telling Carisi he had _worth_.

The work he’d done and the certifications he’d amassed said it all one way, and here was another. Barba telling Carisi what he could next achieve was its own reward, and nothing like those early dismissals. Here, he spoke with confidence, and had written in much the same voice.

Carisi seemed to seriously consider that, like it was some novel new idea crowding bookstands and spilling out of the mouths of eager practitioners who swear by its practices.

 _Self-worth,_ the hordes whispered. _It’s incredible. Try it._

“That’s good advice,” he replied, for lack of anything better. Only one thought stirred in his mind, now. It was yet to take shape, but everywhere his thoughts turned, there it was. A warm, old comfort.

Barba rolled his eyes, then deadpanned, “From someone who can hardly dress himself or do his job, too. It’s a wonder.”

“No one said you couldn’t dress yourself,” Carisi razzed, openly grinning now. And for lack of air or water or sense, that lone idea flitting about his mind finally stirred itself into a frenzy. It took shape, took precedence.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

And Barba took notice.

It was a straight line from there to what Carisi should be willing to ask for. And though Carisi had drawn it, he wondered if this was another instance wherein Barba had set the path.

If Carisi wasn’t mistaken, Barba’s eyes widened slightly. A mere distraction from a little smile curling at his lips.

“Not tonight,” Barba answered coolly. He plucked his briefcase off his desk and let it very nearly swing at his side as he left his office. He didn’t need to bid Carisi to follow; that much was done on instinct.

He said, “My security team already hates me for the hours I keep.”

Barba turned on his heel and faced Carisi. His eyes were no longer wide, but comfortably drawn, his expression one of easy satisfaction, like this, well beyond an apology, was what he’d long expected.

He said, “Friday.”

“Friday,” Carisi agreed, his mind finally clear. He followed Barba out the door, as if it was Friday--and not Barba’s security detail--waiting in the hall.


End file.
